I still don’t know. I wish I had words for this language:
the way I accidentally leave hearts gasping for oxygen
like pathetic fish out of water, how I cannot move
but an inch without burning someone, something.
I am comprised of far too much intensity. If my body had
a list of ingredients, it would read fire, inferno, conflagration,
the label burned at the edges, the fine print charred black as night.
How strange— I’m a water sign. Yet so much of me incinerates.
Fire is familiar. Fire is home to me. I am safe among embers.
This I know because my poetry bleeds like a glass of wine
knocked into the lap of a white dress. And my heart, too,
bleeds like a sunset spilling into the ocean: no boundaries,
no laws enforced or governed, an open wound you can’t stop staring at.
I am both the abandonment and the abandoned,
both the water and the fish, both the sea of flames
and the body at the stake, burning, burning, burned.
And I’ll love you just like that, too, scarlet tragedy.
A pretty, giggling, mesmerizing nightmare,
writing you into poetry that melts holes in your hands.